


Liberation

by woodsong_1978 (Vae)



Series: The Good Ship Serenity [2]
Category: Firefly
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Pirate, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-10
Updated: 2007-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/woodsong_1978
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 years after Zoe joins the crew of Serenity, she finds herself in the suburbs of London on a retrieval mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liberation

It's dark, and cramped. The captain's pressed up against her in a way Wash would probably object to, if he were here, and Jayne's plastered against her other side in a way she'd like to object to herself.

She's not convinced this is a good idea. She's damn close to being convinced this is a terrible idea. They're too far from the sea, for one thing, and she's firmly in agreement with Mal that Simon's got no place taking an active role in crime. Better by far back on board Serenity with Kaylee and Wash.

Still, she's got to admit, the doctor's not doing badly. Skin browned by the sun and wind, years on ship have changed him from the few faded fluttering sketches for the Wanted columns in the Gazette. He's broadened across the chest and shoulders, and the current fashion for wigs definitely doesn't hurt when it comes to disguise and misdirection.

Voices drone on and she shifts her weight, drawing a slow indrawn breath from Jayne and an elbow in her ribs from Mal. A tiny sliver of light slides across her face, letting her catch glimpses of events in the room beyond.

"...of course, it must be a patient to fit my exact requirements, or the study is worthless," Simon drawls, one hand resting on his cane, legs idly crossed in front of him, showing no interest at all in the commotion at the side of the room where a burly warder is dragging in a thin, terrified girl wearing a filthy, tattered shift. Her hair is matted and her eyes wild and swollen from tears, dirt ingrained in lines in her skin, sores lending the only color to her face. Heavy manacles constrict her to small steps, but she's still fighting against the warder.

The supervisor grins a toothy grin that has Zoë’s hand itching to draw her knife and plant it firmly in the man's heart. If he has one. "I believe, sir, that we can meet your special needs." It's obvious he doesn't believe a word of Simon's tale of scientific interest, and even more obvious that he doesn't care. His only interest is in the fat purse hanging from Simon's sword-belt.

"No family?" Simon queries, sipping daintily at his tea, and then setting the cup aside, a slight expression of distaste twisting his lips. "No guardian? I will not have my studies interrupted?" His hand drops to his purse, fingering the drawstring.

"Signed her in for life, they did, don't come a-visitin'." Bulging eyes follow the movements of Simon's hand. "'Course, we did our best for the poor dear, but she ain't right in the head, see."

That doesn't surprise Zoë at all. A few days in this miserable, damp hole, walls echoing with screams and terrible, bubbling laughter, would be more than enough to shake her sanity, never mind that of some malnourished child. A child who's been here for more than five years. The girl's stopped struggling, hanging from the warder's hands, hair falling forwards to cover her face. It's a relief not to catch sight of the desperation in those feral eyes.

"Only if we got to," reminds Mal, in a scarcely audible whisper, like he can feel the angry dark desire roiling inside her, the need to show the inhumane men the same terror the girl's been suffering. He probably can. They're packed close enough.

The supervisor's saying something about compensation, some kind of charity allowance per head, and Mal's wriggling away, one hand held up as a reminder not to follow. Not yet. Not until Simon's safely out. Zoë takes the opportunity to dig a warning elbow into Jayne's side, earning her a glare, and returns her attention to the room. Simon counts thick, heavy-looking gold coins onto the greasy tablecloth, his attention divided between the men and the money. A casual onlooker would never imagine that the girl was of any account to him. "You understand that I shall be removing the patient from this institution?" He flicks another coin idly across the table. It rolls, circling in a decreasing spiral to finally flatten by the supervisor's fingers, and disappears rapidly.

"Long as she's chaperoned," the ape agrees, baring his teeth again. "Can't let the wench's reputation suffer. Can't have people thinkin' she's got loose..." A slimy tongue wraps over his lips, and withdraws, leaving the smirk gleaming like an early morning slug trail, "...morals."

"Shit," Jayne hisses, close enough to Zoë’s ear that she can feel the heat of his breath. "Get out there. Bastard's gonna insist on a woman."

Zoë stiffens. There's no way she can present herself as Simon's wife, or a relative. Not even a servant. There's only one way a woman with her appearance would be part of a nobleman's household, and she's left her days of slavery far behind. It was hard enough to walk meekly through the streets behind the men, head lowered to avoid attention, but to put herself back in that role, however briefly...

"Zoë..." It's almost a plea. From Jayne, who never begs for anything. Scarce even asks, save from Kaylee. The shackled girl raises her head and stares directly at them, as if the wall didn't exist, and Zoë’s back slams against the wall behind her, instinct forcing her back. 

There's true slavery, looking to her for release. It's not a call she can refuse. "Stay," she whispers, and slips along the narrow passage, shaking her unaccustomed skirts into place as she catches up to the captain. 

Fury wars with relief in his expression as he looks her over, and then he reaches across to tug the neckline of her bodice lower still. "Distraction," he mutters shortly, and raps on the door, pushing it open the next moment and leading the way into the stifling room.

It's warmer inside. An optimist's fire (two logs and hope) struggles in the tiny grate, but dirty rugs and wall hangings conspire to hide the chill and damp from the stone walls and floor. The tiny, barred window is covered by heavy curtains, blocking any hint of the daylight outside, and the room is lit by a pair of spluttering, hissing lamps, lending the stink of cheap lamp oil to the unpleasant cocktail of odors. Turning in his chair to acknowledge them, Simon's face freezes for an instant at the sight of her before smoothing back into a mask of ennui as he waves a dismissive hand. "I trust my servant will be sufficient surety for the girl's virtue?"

Zoë grits her teeth, pushes her shoulders back and chest out, and sinks into a curtsey, dipping her head. The supervisor's eyes playing over her exposed bosom leave a taint behind, inciting the intense desire to pull her gown back up. And to bathe. Somewhere private, with Wash nearby. Very nearby.

"She'll do," the supervisor grunts, eventually. It's all Zoë can do not to drop to the ground in relief, but instead, she straightens up and steps back, very willing to put more distance between herself and the animal.

Simon stands up, one hand resting lightly against his cane. "Keys," he requests, beckoning Mal forwards. "Take the child to my carriage."

Chains clank as the girl stumbles forwards, prompted by a push from the warder. Taking her arm, Mal steers her from the room. Zoë follows, grateful that the child seems docile. It's more than Mal is. Safely out of the supervisor's office, across the hallway, and scant inches from the street door, he pauses, glancing back in Simon's direction. "Jayne," she reminds him in an undertone, taking the girl's other arm and using that to urge Mal in the direction of the street. The street, the carriage, air and escape. Longer they linger, the more her spine curls with the need to be gone.

"Jayne," Mal agrees, and steps outside.

Minutes later, Simon joins them, and then Jayne, vaulting onto the box to take the reins, and they're away at last. Pushing a pair of keys into Mal's hands, Simon yanks off the heavy wig and lurches across the carriage to sit next to the girl, one hand gently easing hair back from her face, resting against her cheek. "River?" he breathes, as the chains fall away, spinning out of the window where Mal pitches them to land somewhere on Bromley Heath.

The girl blinks and turns her head to study him, brown eyes dull and heavy, her hand lifting to press questing fingers over his. Her nails are cracked and black, wrists red-raw and weeping from the chains, and Zoë finds herself curling fingers around her own wrist in memory, reassurance that they truly are gone. Shrugging the memory off, she reaches for a shawl, handing it across to Mal to wrap around River's thin shoulders.

River doesn't even seem to notice. Her gaze is fixed on Simon, fingertips tracing the bones of his hand, and then following down his arm to grip, claw-like, at his elbow. "Are you _here_?" she whispers urgently. "This time, are you here?"

"I'm here." A pothole throws them all across one side of the carriage, and by the time they're recovered, River's curled in Simon's lap, his arms tightly around her. "I'm here," he repeats, almost as if reassuring himself rather than the shivering girl. "River, I'm here. We're here. Are you...do you...know?"

"Simon," she replies, hesitantly, and then again, more firmly. "Simon. You're Simon. You're Simon, and you're here, you're here, you're Simon and you're _here_ -"

The words build to the most beautiful sound Zoë's ever heard, climbing softly in pitch to peak in laughter. Desperate, defiant, joyous laughter. Solo, it's achingly lovely. Joined by Simon's relief and Mal's welcome, it's more than that, calling out her own laughter until it fills the carriage, causing Jayne to thump the roof and complain that they're scaring the horses.

It's the sound of freedom.


End file.
